


Merlotte's Bar, Grill and Black Market

by perdiccas



Category: Jericho (US 2006), True Blood
Genre: Action/Adventure, Community: xover_exchange, Crossover, Gen, post apocalyptic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-24
Updated: 2010-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-13 08:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/135460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Sam, the end of the world has been surprisingly good for business.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Merlotte's Bar, Grill and Black Market

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fleurlb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurlb/gifts).



> Written for the 2010 [xover_exchange](http://community.livejournal.com/xover_exchange) for fleurlb. Many thanks to aurilly for beta reading and for running the exchange! <3

Everyone blames the bombs on vampire fundamentalists, although Sookie swears that none of the vamps _they_ know had anything to do with it. Sam isn’t sure what he believes but he knows as well as anybody in town that she can’t read vampire minds. If nothing else, he finds it mighty suspicious Fangtasia is built above a bomb shelter given that radiation has no effect on the undead. (Pam says, “You live through the Cold War once, you learn a thing or two about stockpiling for emergencies.” Sam shivers at her toothy grin, and at the basement room, packed tight with people, not canned goods.)

Eric declares himself the _Sheriff_ -Sheriff of Bon Temps, not just the vampire-Sheriff, because regardless of who really is to blame, Ravenwood is gunning for every vamp they can get their hands on. With a hefty bounty paid to anyone with information leading to a vampire’s True Death, the citizens of the New United States are tripping over themselves to help the vampire genocide get underway. Humans found harbouring vamps don’t fare much better; a wooden stake to the heart doesn’t kill a person as quickly as it does a vampire but it’s just as messy and twice as painful, and everyone ends up just as dead. So, on Eric’s orders, the city limits are drawn in tight enough to make Sam feel claustrophobic. The high town walls and tall, imposing gate crowd everything too close to Merlotte’s for his liking, cutting Bon Temps down to a fraction of the size she used to be. Andy’s men keep tabs on things during the day and at night, there’s a vampire force that keeps watch. The roads into town are lined with freshly abandoned houses where, beyond the barricade, Eric’s men don’t patrol, they hunt.

Eight months on from the attacks, Terry is convinced Bon Temps must have been upwind and upstream from where the explosions hit. He’s adamant that if they haven’t had any fallout by now, there isn’t any coming. On the other hand, Terry is also convinced there’s a sleeper cell high up in the government that’s responsible for the bombs, because politicians are shifty motherfuckers who are always looking to start another war. Sam thinks the apocalypse fucked Terry up more than Fallujah ever did, and he’d rather stick with being safe not sorry, when sorry means dead from radiation poisoning. It’s true that he can’t see the mushroom cloud that hung on the horizon over Shreveport anymore, but that’s not much comfort when there isn’t any _Shreveport_ anymore, either.

It’s only just past dusk, but the evenings get dark quicker now and not just because it’s winter; ever since the EMP, Maxine Fortenberry’s inflatable, life-size nativity figures are the only streetlights the town has the power to run. Sam hopes like hell this isn’t the End of Times like Arlene’s always threatening because the Three Wise Men lead the way straight to Merlotte’s door. And if it is, well, he hopes Jesus likes bathtub gin because that’s all the bar has left in stock. The end of the world has been surprisingly good for business.

In the lull between the day traders leaving and the dinner rush coming in, Sam lingers on Merlotte’s front steps, watching the last of the twilight fade. Andy’s shift ends the second the sun sets and already he’s parking his cruiser in the lot. He’s midway through grunting a tired greeting in Sam’s direction when the _ratta-tatta-tat_ of a sub-machine gun announces there are strangers at the town gate. Sam hears the inevitable answering crash of dishes breaking inside the bar and the _clack clack clack_ of Arlene’s heels as she rushes to clean up and calm Terry down.

If he squints, Sam can see Jason stalking along the barricade with an AK-47 in his hand. His finger has to be on the trigger because bullets are spraying in a crazy arc over his head. When it seems like he’s run out of ammo, Jason sets off a road flare and tosses that in the air instead. Through his bullhorn, Jason orders, “Halt that vehicle and turn around! Bon Temps is closed for the night.”

“Aw, hell,” Andy mutters in exasperation, scrubbing a hand over his forehead. His face is pinched like he has a headache that’s pre-emptively starting. Sam knows the feeling; every night there are stragglers who arrive after the town border has shut but Jason’s the only one who insists on making such a racket when he turns them away.

When a second flare ignites, Andy’s frown only deepens. Technically, two flares in rapid succession means there’s trouble and anyone fit and able and with a weapon to hand is meant to investigate the situation. But that’s a law Eric laid down and frankly, Sam can’t think of a weapon that’s more readily available than fangs and superhuman strength; as far as he’s concerned, Eric can knock himself out playing cavalry given he’s the one who insisted they build the fucking gate in the first place.

Besides, Jason’s been trying to jerry-rig a flamethrower all week from what they have in the police armoury and there are 50-50 odds that the second flare was just another misfire-turned-false alarm. Either way he’s going to put somebody’s eye out, and Sam will be damned if he’s getting close enough to let that somebody be him. Andy wavers on the threshold, like some part of him feels an obligation to investigate despite being off the clock, but the look that settles on his face says the town can get raided for all he cares, as long as he gets a drink in before Merlotte’s falls. As the door swings shut behind him, he calls over his shoulder to Sam, “Whoever that is, unless they start shooting back, I don’t wanna know.”

Jason makes an indignant, strangled sound, caught and amplified by the loudspeaker. Before Sam has a chance to worry that maybe something serious is going on after all, he follows it up by squawking, “Sookie, you get back here, right now! Sookie! Sookie Stackhouse, I ain’t kidding around!”

His voice sounds high and tinny through the megaphone because _of course_ Jason would still have it up to his mouth, broadcasting his business for all of Bon Temps to overhear. A moment later, he whines, “Aw, c’mon, Sook, you’re gonna get me in trouble. Y’know you’re supposed to stay on this side of the barricade after sunset.”

They’re too far away for Sam to hear Sookie’s reply but after a few minutes of silence, the gates creak as they’re opened and an engine revs. The car’s headlights are bright and heading in Sam’s direction. It’s a ten minute drive from the barricade to the bar at most and by the time Jason’s done with his tirade (“False alarm! Stand down, it was just a misunderstanding is all. But if it were a real attack, y’all’d be screwed because where the fuck are you? Andy? Terry? _Sam Merlotte_? My head could be on a pike right now—”) and some smartass down the street is done yelling back (“At least then we’d get some peace and quiet. Shut the fuck up, you dumb motherfucker!”), there’s a familiar pickup idling in the lot.

Dale comes on the first Tuesday morning of every month as regular and reliable as the taxman, back when taxes still existed. But today’s Thursday, and they only saw Dale two weeks ago. He has a friend tagging along (a friend with a gun tucked in his belt, Sam notes), whereas he usually comes alone to trade. While Sam thinks Dale is a good kid, if a little too earnest and a little too serious, this visit feels as welcome as an unexpected audit. Sookie must have hitched a ride in with them, but if she heard anything dangerous in their minds on the way, her expression isn’t telling. She leads the way to the bar, pausing just long enough for Sam to slip through the door ahead of them.

It only took thirty-six nuclear bombs and the near-complete destruction of the world as Sam knew it, but Merlotte’s is finally doing more than breaking even. Every day the bar is drunk dry by people like Dale who come all the way from out of state to trade. Even if most everybody would kill a vampire as soon as look at them these days, they’ll still gladly barter with Lafayette for hard to get items, never questioning his sources. Between the booze and the food and the rent he pulls from Eric and Lafayette’s black market business, Sam is raking in more money than he ever has in his life. It figures, then, that there’s barely anything left worth spending it on.

Lafayette’s customers tend to leave long before dusk because even if no one in town breathes a word about the vampires, the sunset curfew still sets tongues wagging. The diner booths that have been set aside for trading are neatly packed up for the night: guns, ammo, morphine and gas each on their respective shelves. Now, it’s just the usual dinner crowd filtering in and Arlene serving drinks, and if Sam ignores that there’s nothing behind the bar but jars of homemade gin from the still out back, it could almost be any other Thursday night, back from before the world blew up.

He takes a seat at the bar next to Lafayette, who says to Dale and company, “Business hours are over for the day, marshmallow fluff. Y’all are gonna have to click your heels back to Kansas and come back in the morning.”

“Be nice,” Sookie chides, tying an apron around her waist.

Dale tugs off his woollen hat, and Sookie ruffles his hair, mussing it more as she passes him on her way to the kitchen. He says, “It’s a long drive from Jericho, Lafayette.”

“Not my problem,” Lafayette insists. “And don’t go turning those puppy dog eyes on me, kid,” he adds when Dale starts to pout. “I’m already sitting on more salt than I can sell. Just because y’all have a steady source up there in Jericho doesn’t mean you I’m gonna push it for you. If you’re that desperate for a late night deal, there’s a twenty-four trading post in the old Walmart in West Monroe. But, uh, don’t try the coffee while you’re there, I hear they’ve got Hudson River virus in the water.”

Dale’s expression goes colder and harder than it should on a kid so young, and he looks like he’s about to argue. Beside him, the guy he brought with him reaches under his coat. Sam braces against the bar, ready to throw himself over it if the stranger comes out with a gun cocked. Instead, he hands Lafayette a full bottle of Jameson’s; from where Sam’s sitting it doesn’t even look watered down. He says, “What we’re looking for isn’t the kind of thing you can find at Walmart. Consider this a, uh, consultation fee?”

Lafayette examines the label, a grin spreading across his face. “In that case,” he announces, gesturing for Dale to take the barstool on his other side, “welcome to my office. Tara, clean glasses for Dale and...?”

“Jake,” the stranger supplies. “Jake Green.”

Tara pours them each a drink and a double for herself. She smirks in Sam’s direction as she caps the bottle because it’s been months since they had anything name brand in Merlotte’s but, of course, there isn’t a glass for him. “Jake Green,” she says, downing her whiskey in a single gulp, “you are _always_ welcome in Bon Temps.”

Jake grins, bright and wide when Tara throws a wink his way, but Sam only rolls his eyes. Lafayette snorts, “Are you in town to play Love Connection or are you serious about that deal?”

“We’re serious about the deal,” Dale insists just as Tara flicks Lafayette hard on the ear (“Motherfucking _ow_ , Tara Mae. What would your momma say?”) and leaves them to their business.

“We need a vial,” Dale says in a low, careful voice. “Two vials if you can get it but an ounce at least.”

“Now, I know you ain’t talking about V because that shit’s illegal.”

“Illegal is your speciality,” Dale says. “If anyone has a source, it’s you.”

“Not for this I don’t.” He finishes off his whiskey, slamming the empty glass on the bar to punctuate his words. “Listen up, Toto, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but none of us are in Kansas anymore. There’re only three laws Ravenwood enforces: no vamps, no vamps and no motherfucking vamps. Last I checked, you need vampires to get V. So, no, I don’t ‘have a source.’”

“But you can find one,” Jake insists. “And I can make it worth your while.”

Lafayette barks a cold laugh. “Not that you ain’t a sweet piece of ass, but it don’t matter if you’re the best damn lay this side of the Mason-Dixie line, nothing will make it worth my while to cross Ravenwood. If y’all wanna risk your necks just so’s you can trip your balls off, then y’all have the time of your goddamned lives, but do not expect me to get my hands dirty for you. This, by the way,” he adds, indicating the bottle of whiskey, “is a non-refundable deposit. You can see yourselves out.”

“Nonsense!” Sookie says suddenly, sneaking up behind them. “Y’all have to stay for dinner.”

“It’s past curfew, Sook,” Lafayette says curtly.

Sookie rolls her eyes. “Curfew shmerfew. We’re talking Arlene’s momma’s world famous five alarm chilli!”

There’s something not quite right about Sookie’s smile and her insistence that Dale and Jake stay but before anyone has a chance to argue, dinner is served.

“Sorry for the delay, folks,” Arlene announces, setting a steaming bowl of food in front of each of them. “The first batch was a lost cause.” Under her breath, she hisses to Sookie, “That brother of yours is a _menace_ with that machine gun.”

Tara makes a gagging noise around a mouthful of chilli, grimacing and visibly forcing herself to swallow. “Arlene, I know your momma never liked me much, but she’s got no call to try to kill me from beyond the grave! What the fuck is in this?”

“It’s definitely a distinctive flavour,” Jake adds with a wry smirk.

“Oh, uh, that’s probably my fault,” Terry admits sheepishly. “See, the first batch was a wash on account of me dropping it and all, but that was the last of the fresh meat we had in stock, so I used that salted stuff y’all bought from Dale last time he was in town...”

Lafayette asks, “And then added more salt on top?”

“Hush!” Arlene scolds him. “He was only following the recipe, weren’t you, Terry? If you want to be picky about what you eat, you’re welcome to get back in that kitchen instead of drinking all night with out of towners.”

“No one is saying they don’t appreciate Terry picking up the slack now that Lafayette has his own business to run,” Tara interjects, “but would it kill y’all to cook a vegetable in this place once in a while?”

“Well, I could--” Terry starts but Arlene talks right over him. “Rosie heard from Kenya Jones that Jane Bodehouse said they harvested the crops in Calhoun that were planted before the bombs went off and next thing you know, they had a baby born with an extra pinky. On both hands.”

Terry frowns. “Arlene, I don’t think--”

“Bullshit.” Tara intones.

“God’s honest truth, and it’s the radioactive carrots that did it.”

“Please,” Tara insists, rolling her eyes. “They’re an inbred bunch of hicks. The only reason that kid has extra fingers is because everyone in Calhoun has been fucking their cousin for three generations straight. They’re lucky they didn’t have a baby with horns ‘cause they’ve probably been fucking the goats too.”

“ _Tara_!” Arlene hisses, scandalised.

“It’s like I keep telling you, hon,” Terry tries, “we’re outside the fallout zone. There ain’t nothing wrong with the crops.”

“It’s true,” Jake adds when Arlene gives Terry a sceptical look. “’Sides, if the ground were contaminated, the water would be too, and you haven’t had any problems drinking it ‘round here, right?”

“Oh my god, we’ve been drinking _radiation water_?!”

“That’s not what I meant...” Jake tries to explain.

Sam doesn’t know what the fuck is going on in Calhoun (even before bombs, everyone from there seemed to have the same surname and a creepy, familial resemblance), but he does know there’s no way he survived a nuclear Armageddon just to risk his life by munching on a carrot. The conversation devolves into the same argument they’ve all been having since they first left Fangtasia’s bomb shelter, over what is and isn’t safe to eat; Sam really needs a drink. Dale doesn’t seem to have touched his whiskey, so while his attention is diverted, Sam inches forward to steal it for himself.

Suddenly, everything goes dark.

Sam recognises the sound of something falling down, something _heavy_ cutting through the air and gaining speed directly overhead. The shadows gets darker the closer it gets to him, set to land straight on top of him if he doesn’t get out of the way. He runs as fast as he can but the bar is sticky and wet. If he gets out of this alive, he’s firing Tara’s ass because it’s her job to keep this thing clean but here he is alternately skidding through pools of spilt liquor and trying to pull himself free from patches of stickiness he doesn’t want to identify. He turns sharply, trying to outmanoeuvre whatever it is that’s plummeting down, but it follows just as quickly as he can dodge and weave. He skids through the dregs of something that smells way too rank to be hygienic and slams headfirst into the side of Dale’s whisky tumbler. The alcohol sloshes with the impact. Whisky spills over the rim. It douses Sam’s head, streaming down his back.

He has just the time it takes to bitch out whoever up there might be listening because he’s always said he wants a drink before he dies, but never envisioned it going quite like this, when everything goes still. Slowly, the shadow starts to recede. Sam blinks. Now that the light’s not blocked out, he can see Lafayette gripping Dale tightly by the wrist, pulling Dale’s hand back.

“You don’t wanna be doing that,” Lafayette warns.

Confused, Dale protests, “It’s just a cockroach.”

Sam takes the opportunity to scramble out of all potential swatting, squishing and smushing range. He scuttles up onto the back of Tara’s hand, hoping for a ride somewhere safer. It can be hard to communicate in this form but Sam gets by; it’s worth it for the peace of mind that comes with living as the one creature guaranteed to survive a nuclear apocalypse. Unfortunately, when he wiggles his antennae, brushing them along the inside of Tara’s palm she doesn’t oblige him. Instead she spits, “Oh _hell_ no, Sam Merlotte. That is fucking nasty.”

She flicks her wrist sharply.

The momentum hurls him through the air so fast everything is a blur. Instinct or self-preservation kicks in and his body shifts. His arms pinwheel as soon as he gets arms back, but it doesn’t help slow him down. He’s in human form by the time he hits the ground.

“Motherfucking son of a bitch!” Gingerly, Sam hauls himself up. His ass aches where he landed on it and when he moves to the bar to prop himself up, every movement makes him wince. He can still smell whisky in his hair.

“How many times do I have to tell you that’s gross?” Tara yells. “If you wanna spend the rest of your life as a bug, that’s on you, but don’t go crawling all over folks and putting them off their food.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving off the argument before it really begins.

Arlene ventures, “You are kinda scaring the customers, Sam.”

Dale’s barstool lies haphazardly on its side, presumably knocked over when Dale jumped to his feet. He stares at Sam with wide, spooked eyes but Jake, if anything, just looks amused.

“What?” Sam sighs at Dale in exasperation.

The kid goes beet red and finally averts his gaze. “You’re... um...”

Tara’s bunched up apron hits Sam squarely in the chest. “Cover up your jiggly bits already before you scar that poor kid for life.”

Lafayette wolf whistles; even with an apron on, Sam’s butt is still hanging out. Irritated, Sam swipes the Jameson’s from him, taking a swig directly from the bottle. Lafayette breaks off mid-whistle to threaten, “Bitch, please.”

“You can take it out of the twenty percent you still owe me for this month’s rent.”

Their bickering is interrupted by Eric and Bill rushing into the bar at a preternatural speed. The door swigs wildly in their wake, slamming hard against the doorframe. Still wide-eyed, Dale whispers to Jake, “ _Vampires_.”

“Jesus Christ, would you two be more careful?!” Sam snaps. “It’s not like I can drive to Home Depot for new hinges when you’re done busting down the door.”

Eric ignores him, fixing Dale and Jake with a cool stare. “Gentleman, we close at dusk for a reason.” He flicks his gaze to Sam and down to where Tara’s apron is tied around his waist. “You might want to put on some pants. Ravenwood is paying us a visit.”

Outside, there’s a series of explosions. A hush settles in the bar as through the window, they watch Catherine Wheels and Roman Candles exploding in the night sky; Jason must be setting off fireworks to warn them of Ravenwood’s approach.

The quiet is broken when Andy belches. “Yup, I don’t think that’s no false alarm,” he says placidly when the room turns to face him. He licks his spoon clean and places it neatly next to his empty bowl. “That was some mighty fine chilli, Arlene. Your momma always was a goddess in the kitchen.”

Lafayette snorts. Under his breath he mutters, “Sure, if your idea of gourmet is chowing down on a salt lick.”

Arlene swats him distractedly on the shoulder. Bill has taken down the rifles Lafayette has for sale and the swish-slide of metal on metal as he loads them has everyone jittery and on edge. Another set of firecrackers go off and in their wake, Arlene takes Dale’s shoulder, urging him up. “Come on, y’all had best be going now.”

“No,” Eric says decisively. He zips forward; Arlene jumps back with a surprised yelp. Jake shifts in front of Dale, shielding him as Eric crowds them both against the wall. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Breaking curfew is against the law, and as I’m sure you’re well aware, we take the law very seriously here in Bon Temps. ”

He snarls, fangs out, lunging for Jake’s jugular.

“Eric, no!” Sookie yells. Bill grabs her around the waist, holding her back when she tries to intervene.

“Wait,” Jake insists, barely flinching even as Eric’s teeth hover close enough to graze his skin. “We can help.”

Eric cocks his head but he doesn’t look convinced.

“Ravenwood doesn’t go on vampire raids unprepared: they’ll have at least three werewolves for every man on their squad and the best artillery available. You’ve got eight rifles between you and by the looks of it, maybe three people who know how to shoot them. You might be fast and you might be strong,” he says, leaning in closer to Eric’s face, “but you won’t win when you’re outnumbered three to one. I know Ravenwood, I’ve seen them fight. They fight dirty and they won’t mess around. They don’t ask questions; they’ll do anything to make sure you meet your True Death. We have weapons,” he continues, “in our truck: Silver studded smart bombs, spring-loaded crossbows with silver tipped bolts, the kind of stuff that kill a werewolf in a single shot.”

“You just happen to have all that on you and you want offer it to us out of the goodness of your heart?” Eric drawls sceptically.

“Not exactly, no but I’ll make you a deal: all the weapons we have with us in exchange for two vials of V.”

Sam winces as soon as the words are out of Jake’s mouth; the flash of rage on Eric’s face is exactly as quick and terrifying as he predicted. He shakes Jake where he holds him by the shoulders, slamming him into the wall hard enough that the wood panelling splinters from the force. Sam hopes whatever he hears cracking isn’t Jake’s bones.

“How do I know that you’re not working with them?” Eric demands. “Maybe you were sent in here to buy V to catch a vampire? How do I know you don’t just want to get out of here to help Ravenwood sneak back in?”

Exasperated, Sookie yells, “They don’t, they’re not lying.” Dale and Jake look at her, their expressions equal parts relieved for the support and mildly disconcerted. “People are sick... no, not sick, hurt.” She tilts her head and listens harder. “There was an accident: a water tower collapsed. A lot of people were injured when it came down. Their clinic doesn’t have what they need to help them.”

For the first time, Sam thinks Jake looks shaken up. He glances at Dale but Dale shakes his head, his face suddenly ashen, as white a sheet. “Don’t look at me, I never said.”

Jake stares at Sookie warily. “How did you know that?”

“For fuck’s sake,” Sookie snaps. “Does it really matter when I’m trying to save your ass?”

Jake’s mouth snaps shut, clearly biting back whatever he was going to say.

“Thank you!” she huffs sarcastically. She turns to Eric and starts, “Eric--”

But he cuts her off with a snarl. “The circumstances are irrelevant: vampire blood is _not_ for sale.”

Bill puts a hand on Eric’s shoulder. Calmly he says, “Eric, we have more pressing matters to deal with right now. Let this be their warning and send them be on their way.”

While he’s talking, Jason skids into Merlotte’s. He’s loaded up with enough fire power to arm a small militia: two bandoliers crisscross his chest, a whole mess of rifles and semi-automatics slung across his back, and at least three pistols shoved into the waistband of his jeans. He slams the door shut and locks it, grabbing chairs and shoving them against the door to bar it. “If anyone’s going anywhere,” he says breathlessly, picking up from where Bill left off. “They’d best take the backdoor. Ravenwood are gonna be on our doorstep in...”

The ground shakes, cutting him off. Terry screams, collapsing in the back with his hands over his ears. “What in fucks name was that?” Sam yells, over the noise that threats to rattle his brain right out of his skull.

“Mortar rounds,” Jake shouts back, calmly ignoring that Eric still has him pinned against the wall.

“Got it in one,” Jason agrees, distractedly. He tips a table on its side, wedging it as close to the door as he can. Finally, he steps back and dusts off his hands. “They’re firing off canons. I hope one of y’all has a plan because otherwise we’re all gonna die.”

Terry makes a pained noise, rocking back and forth. “Bite your tongue, Jason Stackhouse,” Arlene huffs, hugging Terry tighter.

“Jake has a plan,” Dale says, his voice shaking just a little when Eric flashes his fangs in his direction.

“Then for god’s sake, Eric let them go!” Arlene says, to a general murmur of agreement.

“If you’re lying,” Eric threatens, “I’m going to kill very you slowly.”

“If we’re lying,” Jake retorts, “Ravenwood will kill us first.”

Sam shows Jake and Dale to the backdoor. Jake holds a finger to his lips, indicating they need to stay quiet. He presses his ear against the wood. He listens for a minute, then mouths, ‘Guards. Outside.’

‘Werewolves?’ Sam mouths back. Jake nods.

From the front of the bar, a sudden, steady pounding starts up, like someone is trying to batter down the door. An unfamiliar voice booms through a megaphone, “This is Captain Myers of Ravenwood, Charlie Company, First Division. We have credible reports that vampires are being harboured in the vicinity. If you do not present yourselves for inspection immediately, we will break down this door.”

Jason yells back, “Fuck you, this is private property. Get the hell off our land.”

Jake reaches for the door handle but Sam slaps his hand away. “Are you crazy?” he whispers. “You go out there, you’ll get ripped to shreds.”

“Gotta risk it,” he says stoically. “We stay in here, they’ll break down the door and rip us all to shreds anyway. We need those weapons if we’re gonna get out of this alive.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Sam mutters. “You’d better have fucking WMDs out there or something because if I end up dead for no reason, I’m gonna be fucking pissed.”

He shucks Tara’s apron, ignoring the way Dale flushes all the way down his neck. To Jake he says, “Give me a minute to distract the guards before you do anything stupid.”

“How...” Jake starts.

“Trust me,” Sam says. “If there’s one thing werewolves love to chase, it’s shapeshifters.”

He slips out the door in the familiar form of a dog. He trots towards the woods that edge the parking lot, yapping sharply to get the werewolves’ attention, on the off chance they haven’t caught his scent by now. Then, Sam runs.

It might mean that things are going exactly as he planned, but that doesn’t mean Sam’s _happy_ to have three mean, hulking wolves snarling and snapping right behind him. They’re bigger and stronger than he is in this shape. If they catch him, they’re fast enough that they could bite him in half before he has a chance to shift into anything with hope in hell of getting away. But, as a dog, Sam knows these woods better than he knows the back of his hand.

He runs straight towards the ridiculous deer traps Jason insists setting, even though the most they’ve ever caught with them is one drunken trader who got lost looking for his car. Sam swears that if this works, he’ll never, ever make fun of Jason again for learning all he knows about hunting from Loony Tunes cartoons. He spots the concealed pit when he’s about ten strides away. He has to hand it to Jason that least they’re well camouflaged; if he didn’t know what to look for, he might not have noticed it all. He hopes the wolves are too hell bent on catching him to pay attention to where they’re being led.

Instead of slowing like he’d normally do, Sam shuts his eyes, running until he can feel the ground start to fall away. His back paws scrabble for purchase on the very edge of the pit. He can feel the wolves close enough behind him to nip at his tail. At the very last second, Sam leaps.

He lands clumsily on the far side of the pit, listening to the shocked yelps of the wolves as the leaves and bracken collapse under their paws and they fall down. He hauls himself back to his feet, barking a canine ‘fuck you’ while they howl and then he books it out of there. Jason digs the pits pretty fucking deep, but with three of them trapped together, it won’t take the werewolves long to escape once they have the sense to change back into human form.

Sam comes out of the woods panting, shaking himself to get the worst of the mud off his fur. Dale spins when he spots him, levelling a pistol in his direction. Sam shifts, crouching on the ground with his hands held up in front of him. “Careful where you’re pointing that thing. It’s only me.”

Jake is hunched over the bed of their truck, fiddling with wires and a toolbox. “You take care of the werewolves?” he asks gruffly, not looking up.

“Yeah.” Sam swallows dryly, fidgeting anxiously from foot to foot. About five feet from where they’re standing there’s a fucking crater in the asphalt from the shell Ravenwood fired earlier. “But I don’t know how long it’ll hold them back.”

“Then we’d better move quickly; Ravenwood have already broken down your door.”

Jake motions Sam and Dale closer, showing off what looks like... “Is that a fucking _pipe bomb_?!” Sam hisses. “Are you insane? Your master plan is blowing up my bar and everyone in it?”

“Shh,” Jake whispers. “Relax. It’s just a nail bomb.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Oh well, in that case...”

Jake unscrews the cap on the bomb. Sam flinches; he doesn’t need to know much about explosives to hold the opinion that fucking with them is very bad idea. He takes a step back but Jake tips a bunch of nails into his palm, holding them out for Sam to see. “Silver,” he explains. “It’s the only thing that’ll stop a werewolf for good. There’s enough C4 to disperse the nails but it won’t be enough force to do structural damage.”

“Uh-huh,” Sam mutters, unconvinced. “So, what, you’re just gonna toss it through the window?”

Jake shrugs. “Pretty much.” Adding, “But we don’t want any collateral damage; silver might not kill vampires, but it’ll hurt ‘em pretty bad. Someone’s gotta get in there and warn everyone else to duck.”

“Fuck,” Sam says under his breath. “Any chance that ‘someone’ is one of you two?”

Jake shakes his head sympathetically. “Unless you know exactly when to throw a bomb so it doesn’t go off while you’re still holding it?”

“Goddammit.” Sam sighs. “Let’s get this over with.”

He thinks for a moment, weighing his options, and then shifts into a moth.

Sam lands on an open windowpane, his wings still fluttering. Two thuggish looking guys in Ravenwood uniforms stand in the wreckage of Jason’s busted down barricade. The one Sam pegs as Captain Myers has a gun aimed at Jason, and his lackey has a stake in each hand, his gaze tracking Bill and Eric. At their feet, four wolves are crouched and growling, waiting for the order to attack. Sam projects his thoughts as loudly as he can.

_Sookie, listen to me. When I give the signal, y’all need to duck for cover, okay?_

She glances briefly in Sam’s direction. As confirmation that she’s heard him, it isn’t much, but he’ll have to take it. She’s standing close enough to the bar that she can easily dive behind it, and near enough to Tara and Lafayette that she can drag them with her. Outside, the trapped werewolves howl. If they haven’t gotten free by now, they will soon; it’s now or never for Sam to make his move and he’ll just have to hope that Jake’s ready.

Jason of course, chooses that moment to continue his unbroken streak as a perpetual pain in Sam’s ass. He rushes forward but the wolves snap at his heels prevent him from getting right up in Myers’ face. He’s got what looks like a rocket launcher resting on his shoulder. Fuck if Sam knows where he got it, but with the way he’s waving it around, Jason looks more likely to burn Merlotte’s down than land a clean enough shot to take Ravenwood out.

“You punks feelin’ lucky tonight?” he taunts.

 _Oh for cryin’ out loud_ , Sam groans, inside his head. Sookie seems to take that as the signal, grabbing Tara’s hand and pulling her behind the bar, Lafayette following. The movement makes the wolves twitch. They jump towards them, snarling. Eric and Bill bare their teeth in return. Myers has his finger on his gun’s trigger. Before he can twitch too and shoot Jason at point blank range, Sam leaps off the window.

He flies as fast as he can on a collision course with Jason, shifting back into his human body as he slams into his chest. He tackles Jason to the ground as he falls, shouting, “I take back my invitation! No fucking vampires allowed in my bar!”

“ _Oof_ ,” Jason groans. He lands on top of Sam, his weight knocking the breath from Sam’s lungs.

“What are you doing?” Bill demands but his words are elongated and distorted by whatever magic it is that sucks him and Eric out the door.

Above him, Jason tries to struggle to his feet, but Sam clings tightly to his biceps, trying to roll them both behind the cover of a nearby table that has fallen on its side. He isn’t quick enough. A window shatters. The bomb lands on the floor. A second passes. Everything explodes.

The ground shakes underneath them. Sam ducks his head, shielding his face with his arms. It’s still bright enough to hurt his eyes. Jason’s body covers his but Sam can still feel a _thud, thud_ as silver nails impale themselves in Jason’s back.

For a moment, all Sam can hear is a residual ringing in his ears. When the dust settles, the white noise fades into the whining of the maimed werewolves. Over Jason’s shoulder, he can see four naked, _human_ bodies, writhing and bloodied on the floor. The Ravenwood guys are down too, looking knocked out cold. Sam shakes Jason by the shoulders. The fucker is heavier than he looks, and completely unresponsive.

“Jason!” he hisses, edging on hysteria. “Jason, no! No, you _dumb fuck_!”

Suddenly, Jason’s head snaps up from where it’s been lolling like a dead weight on Sam’s shoulder. “Hey now, is that any way to talk to the guy who just saved your hide?”

“Oh Jesus, thank fuck,” Sam says. But anger follows quickly in the wake of his relief and he slaps Jason hard on his arm, shoving him off his chest.

“Ow!” Jason says in a wounded voice, rolling so he’s lying side-by-side with Sam on the ground.

“I thought you were dead,” Sam snaps.

“No way.” Jason twists around and lifts his shirt, revealing the scraps of metal he’s hammered into shape and cinched around his body with leather belts. The silver nails, driven deep into the armour on his back, pin his t-shirt and prevent him from hoisting it up very far. He knocks his knuckles against the metal over his heart and winks. “S’better than Kevlar, man. I made it myself.”

Sam seriously doubts that—the homemade bulletproof vest is already warped and fragile looking—but he simply groans and sags back against the floor.

The respite doesn’t last long; a bottle breaks and Sookie screams. Jason is instantly on his feet, scrabbling for his rocket launcher. Sam looks up to see Myers, bleeding and bruised and _not_ unconscious like Sam thought. He holds Sookie in a chokehold, in front of him like human shield. Tara waves the broken bottle of Jameson’s at him threateningly. The other Ravenwood guy is slumped at her feet, where he fell when she brained him first.

“You let her go, right the fuck now,” Tara spits.

In the doorway, Bill and Eric pound their fists on the invisible barrier that keeps them from entering the bar. “Let us in!” Bill shouts.

“No,” Myers orders, tightening his arm around Sookie’s neck. “You’d better not.”

“Shit,” Sam says, and then “ _shit_ ” again in surprise when Myers jerks backwards, impaled to the wall by a wooden stake through his throat. He gargles his last breath, blood foaming in his mouth and bubbling from the gaping wound in his neck. His grip loosens as he dies, letting Sookie slip free; Tara and Lafayette gather her in their arms. In the window, Jake lowers his crossbow.

“Sam!” Bill says hoarsely.

“Oh shit, yeah, right. Welcome. Enter. What the fuck ever, just get in here.”

Bill zips to Sookie’s side, pausing only to snap the neck of the solider Tara took out. He tucks Sookie against his chest as Eric darts around the bar, methodically ripping out each werewolf’s throat. Slowly, folks start to crawl out from where they were hidden. There are a few scrapes and cuts, and in the corner, Terry is slowly breaking down, but other than that, everyone seems all right. Sam stretches as he stands, popping a crick in his spine.

A wolf howls again outside. Sam tenses, remembering that there are still Ravenwood guards that need to be taken out. Dale picks his way through the debris on the threshold, saying, “Don’t worry. Jake’s taking care of them.”

Sam freezes; Dale has a loaded crossbow pointing directly at Eric’s heart.

“Are you going to stake me, little boy?” Eric says, his voice hissing around his fangs.

“I don’t want to,” Dale says with a steely edge. “But I will. I’m sorry, Lafayette, Sookie, but you don’t understand. A lot of people in Jericho are hurt real bad and if we don’t get some V...”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam can see Jake carefully approaching. Jason must have spotted him too because he swings the rocket launcher around, aiming it in Jake’s direction. Jake holds up his hands to show that they’re empty, but he doesn’t stop inching closer. To Dale he calls soothingly, “Dale, come on, now, don’t do this.”

“We need that V, Jake.”

Desperately, Jake shouts, “You think I don’t know that? My dad is in a coma, Dale, but he wouldn’t want to be saved like this. _Skylar_ wouldn’t want to be saved like this. Nobody wants you to do this.”

Dale’s hands start to shake. For a split second, his aim wavers. Jake takes advantage of the opening to knock him over. The crossbow clatters to the ground. The trigger goes off with the impact. Eric jumps aside just in time. The bolt reverberates with a twang, boring into the wall behind where he was standing.

Dale crumples in on himself; he looks every bit as young as his sixteen years. Jake cradles him close to his chest, propping him up. He whips his gun from his belt, providing them cover as he walks backwards to the door, pulling Dale alongside him. “Look, we don’t want no trouble,” he says.

“Too late for that,” Eric snarls but before he can pounce, Sookie grabs him by the arm. She stares at Dale. From the look on her face, whatever she’s hearing in his mind, Sam thinks it must be heartbreaking.

“Don’t,” she says to Eric. She turns in Bill’s embrace to plead, “They saved my life, Bill. All of our lives. Helping them is the least we can do; Skylar is the only family Dale has left.”

Bill hesitates. Eventually, he sighs, “Fine.”

He takes a piece of broken glass, slicing up his forearm, and squeezing the gash until he’s filled a jar with enough vampire blood to give a guy a boner that’ll last his whole damn life. He passes the jar to Dale while Eric glares, still bristling where Sookie holds him back.

Lafayette says, “Y’all need to find somewhere else trade.”

“No problem,” Jake says easily.

They’re almost out the door when Jake pauses, turning back to Sam. “I think this is yours,” he says. “You dropped it earlier.”

He tosses over the apron Sam had been wearing before he shifted into a dog. Lafayette’s laugh is sharp and sudden, and with the tension broken, soon everyone is giggling. “Shut the fuck up,” Sam mutters, hastily tying the apron back around his waist, but he smiles when Tara slaps him playfully on ass. In midst of the commotion, Jake and Dale slip away.

“I don’t know about y’all,” Lafayette says, “but I need a fucking drink.”

Andy echoes, “I’ll drink to that.”

 

**-END-**

Prompt:  
\- As the Apocalypse is upon us, Eric has something that might give ~~Team Free Will~~ Jericho the edge. (adapted from an SPN/True Blood prompt)  
\- A natural or manmade disaster strikes and characters must work together to save themselves and others


End file.
